Encore
by Phoenix Dayze
Summary: Tohma liked it as quick, tasteless, and impersonal as Ryuichi could make it...


Encore

By: Phoenix Dayze

(Ryuichi, Tohma)

R

Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation and make no profit off this fic.

Ryuichi licked his lips. He knew what was coming. What would happen to him now was what always inevitably followed their show, which was always hot and wild. But the show was over now, and he was backstage, and there was a cool draft against his sweat-dampened skin. The dressing table was hard, an undeniable solidity beneath his thighs, which were spread open almost like they were pinned in place, a butterfly on a plate. The sound of the cord moving through the leather of his pants was loud and rough in his ears, and Ryu knew that now, this moment, was redefined, and it was up to him to survive it, when all he wanted to do was slip away. But more was always needed from him. And Ryuichi always gave all the more that Tohma wanted.

He tilted his head back, exposing the long, smooth column of his throat, his damp hair brushing against the nape of his neck, feathering over his forehead, his cheekbones, framing his face, the angelic, siren face of the sex-studded rock god. A deep-seeded ache rose in the backs of his thighs as he undulated, rocking himself upwards, thrusting into air to the music of Tohma's making. It hurt. He was tired. But he would never stop.

The enclosure of his pants fell away at his own hands, but not his will, and he hissed at the contact of the rough, warm pads of his fingertips against flesh that wasn't never quite ready for the 'encore performance'. He wrapped his hand around his length, stroking, willing himself harder and harder, anything for Tohma, and Tohma like it hard. He liked it as quick and tasteless, as impersonal as Ryuichi could make it. He liked to watch.

Sweat trickled down Ryuichi's face and into his eyes, gathered at the corners of his mouth. He moved his hand, up and down over his cock, twisting, pulling, _forcing_… A terrible, familiar stirring wriggled low in his belly, and Ryuichi welcomed it, let it consume him, let it temporarily block the nausea that he knew would return later when he was alone again, when the curtain had truly fallen. He needed to come. Tohma wanted it. And that was the only thing that would set him free.

His mouth fell open, a near-silent gasp on his lips. His body and mind were in turmoil. He wanted this, but he _wanted_ to die, to be anywhere but here. His body needed the release, but despised it, and he simply _couldn't_… And his hand was like a choking, chafing vice around his sensitive flesh. And it hurt to touch. It hurt to feel. And Tohma's eyes burned like the wicked jewels that they were. And Ryu wanted to stop, but he couldn't. He always went on, always did what Tohma wanted…because Tohma was Tohma. And together they were Nittle Grasper. And that was everything, was _worth_ everything, even this sickening, degrading torment.

"Please, Tohma…" The words escaped him without thought, without conscious intent, they just were, an unbidden plea for release, but of another kind.

Soft, cool lips pressed against the corner of his mouth, and contradictorily warm breath gusted against his ear. "Not yet, Ryu…Come for me."

A pained cry broke free from Ryuichi's chest as he redoubled his efforts, narrowing his thoughts, and focusing his all on one single goal. His body tightened sharply, necessary lust singing along his nerves. He was so close…

Then, he broke through the waters, choking on the acrid air that attacked his lungs as he rode out the slicing, bruising release. His head clunked back against the mirror as his body convulsed, rocking the table with his weight. His hands dropped aimlessly to his sides, covered in the wrung out fluid. Hands that made music, hands that played and lived, hands that served the devil, hands that Ryuichi had come to hate the sight of.

Ryuichi blinked the sweat and tears from his eyes, but he knew it was pointless. He knew that Tohma would already be gone. He always was. He never stayed after, never said anything, he was just…_gone_.

With trembling hands, Ryu slowly relaced his pants and slid off the table, ignoring the hearty twinges in his thighs. It was all just part of the game. And Ryuichi had always been exceedingly good at games.

The End.


End file.
